


Mild and Low

by elistaire



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, M/M, Ocean, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:02:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7442020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is only the ebb and flow, and Methos remembers the ocean.  This time he brings Duncan with him. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Methos….”  And that which was Methos knew that sound: of a bleeding so deep within it could never be staunched.</i></p><p>  <i>“Come with me,” he whispered, but the sound didn’t escape until the waves broke on the shore.</i></p><p>  <i>“Methos?”  A step towards land, a slip on the rock bottom below, and that which was Methos flowed around his love, and kissed his breath from him, and reminded him of what their souls were.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mild and Low

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 2005.

_Mild and Low...Ebb and Flow...Withered Grass and Hollowed Moon_

 

Standing halfway between shore and deep water, Methos balanced on the slick, slippery rock bottom. Waves swelled past him, foam etched and black as ink. One hand cupped, he skimmed the crest of the next wave, gathering the silken froth and with the other hand dipped deep to the coolest, coldest layer. All around him, the ocean sang--an endless, relentless tide. A sliver of honeyed moon hung low in the sky, exerting her influence far and wide. Come in. Go out. Come in again. Eons of restlessness, and wandering waters.

Methos remembered; yearning returned. 

Tightness within eased, and he floated on the ocean, harsh land sounds muffled and deepened. He shivered, cold at last.

“Methos! Methos….” Too distant, it came to him through the water, distorted and falling away, becoming unfamiliar.

> _“Not for forever.” MacLeod twined his strong fingers through Methos’. “Just for a time.”_
> 
> _Methos narrowed his eyes. Answer enough, he thought._
> 
> _“Just until it calms again. Until things quiet down.”_
> 
> _“Until your name is less notorious, your legend tarnished, and forgotten?”_
> 
> _“Yes. The Gathering--“_
> 
> _Methos drew in a breath so sharp he hissed. “There is no Gathering, MacLeod. It waxes and wanes, gibbous and crescent, there is only a cycle--”_
> 
> _“Yes,” MacLeod hissed back. “And right now is a Harvest Moon, and I won’t have you near me.” His voice modulated, but the harshness in his eyes did not. “These challenges come to me--my battles, not yours. If anyone would understand--” A pause and then he said, “Please,” as if the word had torn free with part of his soul, and sea-salt had been ground in the wound of it._
> 
> _“Then I shall go.” He turned away. “Be safe. Live, grow stronger.”_
> 
> _“How can I--“_
> 
> _“--find me?” Methos finished, already inward turning, and planning. “We’ll meet again. Have no doubt.”_

Raw and lonesome, bleeding inside in a way undiminished by the ability of Quickening energy to heal, the oldest way of easement had come to him. He had always known it, he supposed. Had always hated the sea, the water, the vastness and emptiness of it, and had always known why.

But he ached. In his core and in the fibers and lines of all of him, he ached from skin inward and heart outward, till he shook with the strain of holding it in.

And this close to the sea, it called to him always. Always. As it called to all of them, though probably none but he knew it, nor remembered. They just…lived on the coasts, by rivers and streams, flesh made solid, and memory buried. Because some fairytales were true--cloaked and changed, to be sure. Dressed with ribbons and lessons of morality, but true enough for those tired of wandering the dry landscape.

A way to pass the years, strengthen reserves and heal…a way to sleep, and to rest. Rest until he no longer bled. 

So, no longer dismissing and ignoring it, he responded to the ever-present call. He stood halfway between shore and deep water, listened to the breakers, and thought of the skein of foam puzzle-worked across the midnight surface.

“Methos! Methos….”

Too late, though, he thought, and even his thoughts ebbed and flowed in his mind. Protest some other night, some other time, he meant to say, but he was too far gone for words.

Splashing and disarray came close, and he felt the warmth of a human hand pass through him.

“Methos….” And that which was Methos knew that sound: of a bleeding so deep within it could never be staunched.

“Come with me,” he whispered, but the sound didn’t escape until the waves broke on the shore.

“Methos?” A step towards land, a slip on the rock bottom below, and that which was Methos flowed around his love, and kissed his breath from him, and reminded him of what their souls were.

~~~

_Restless._

_Wandering._

_Idle._

_Withered._

He blinked and knew himself. He drifted, and swirled, and was no longer content.

Then they were no longer content.

And the ocean gave them up, crashed them to shore, and left them on the edge of the two worlds.

Methos spit sand and looked to his side, where MacLeod lay with his face to the sky, seaweed braided in his hair. MacLeod turned over and coughed out seawater.

“Come on then, Mac,” Methos said when the tide finally went out. “Shall we see how many years have passed?”


End file.
